


Home?

by ItsJaya



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Living Together, Mother-Son Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, poor parenting, what is normal?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsJaya/pseuds/ItsJaya
Summary: Even after aiding his father to solve his latest case, Damian finds himself feeling more and more distant from the entire family. Instead of wallowing around Gotham, he decides to find his mother has seemingly abandoned her old ways.
Relationships: Talia al Ghul & Damian Wayne
Comments: 7
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

Her son shows up one morning, a backpack slung over his shoulder, hair longer and greasier. He’s wearing a gray get up, bandages wrapped around his left hand and an ugly gash on his cheek. “When was the last time you showered?” she asks and his nose scrunches up immediately.

“Hello to you as well, mother,” and he walks past her, leaving a trail of mud behind him. “You’ve found yourself a nice hole to hide in.” 

“I know,” she tells him, crossing her arms over her chest as he slumps on her couch. All manners lost. How disappointing. Instead of admonishing him for his terrible posture and unruly state, she casually walks till she’s across him. He looks up at her immediately. “I hear you’ve been in hiding as well.”

“I’m  _ not _ hiding,” and he sits upright, the tension she’d seen when she first opened the door back. “And I don’t want to talk right now.” 

Her son has not changed much, she realizes happily. “What happened?” she asks, beginning to tap a finger against her arm. He glares at her once before looking down. He’s ashamed. They’ve sent him back like a dog with his tail between his legs. “What did you do?” she insists, eager to hear how the events leading her son back transpired.

“What are  _ you _ doing here anyways?” he asks, leaning back against the couch, trying to look calm and collected. 

“A tiny vacation,” she seats herself in the chair by the couch, hoping the lack of eye contact will make it easier for him to open up. It did before. She tries not to feel surprised when he shifts in his seat to look at her better. “I’ve been thinking,” she starts and remains silent, waiting for him to prod. An old game they used to play was just like this- she’d told him back then it was to teach him patience. In fact, she just wanted a break. Damian was always a curious kid, his early years spent asking for stories after stories. 

“I’m hungry,” he instead declares, making his way to her kitchen as if it was his house. “Do you still cook?”

“As I am currently living by myself, no,” she answers honestly, “but since you’re here, I’ll be sure to make you something. Anything particular in mind?” And her boy smiles warmly.

.

.

.

Turns out he asks for a simple stew. While she prepares it, he showers. He takes out a dirty looking shirt from his bag and decent pair of jeans. She hands him one of her own shirts, and after a bit of insisting, he agrees to wear it. 

In her tiny kitchen, a nearly burnt out light bulb serving as her only source of light, she peels carrots and potatoes with a knife as she hadn’t bothered getting a peeler, not thinking she would be using the kitchen much. She’s only got chicken breast but that should do. Maybe she’ll buy oxtail if Damian decides to stay longer. 

After showering, Damian asks her if he can sleep on the couch. She says “no” curtly and watches as he builds up all his walls again, a cold, smooth expression. She would’ve thought he’d lost such a skill, living with Bruce’s family for over three years. She turns her back, going to check on the stew. The house smells warm. Smells like a home she dreamed of once upon. 

She finally says, turning to face him, “You should sleep in the room. I don’t have a heater for the living room and it gets quite cold here.” He’s sitting on a chair, looking down at the dirty, old tiles. 

“And you?”

“There’s space for both of us, I believe.” 

They have a silent meal together. Quite a dashing difference what a few years apart plus murdering your son can do to your relationship. Once upon a time, they’d be dining in a hall, with candle lights illuminating their lavish meals and tales and ballads and rich history taking place instead of this horrible silence. He’d look up to her with love and warmth in his eyes and supply her with endless humorous remarks. They’d finish their meals and he’d walk by her side, barely reaching her thighs. 

He breaks the silence by declaring, “I didn’t get kicked out.”

“I know,” she replies, pouring out more soup for him. “I can’t imagine them doing that to you.”

“I left. No one took me out. And it was my fault.” 

“So I heard. Underground prison, brainwashing techniques- I must say, your rebellion phase is so much better than I expected it to be.” He scoffs and goes back to stirring his soup. “Is it good?”

“Much better than I remember it being.”

“Considering you loved it before, I’m quite pleased to hear that.”

“I’ve managed to cook myself a few decent meals. If I stay here, I’ll be sure to make some.”

“Assuming you have nowhere else to go at this point, I expect to be trying them sometimes this week.” He glares at her and she can’t help but smile in response. 

“I actually do have somewhere else I could go. I’m just choosing not to.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he’s getting defensive and this is perfect. Maybe he’ll finally offer something she doesn’t know. “I could go back to Richard if I wanted to.”

“He’s regained his memories?” she raises an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you haven’t been snatched back then. Unless of course..” She lets the sentence hang, watching as his cheeks flush red.

“Just shut up.”

“Quite a way to speak to your mother.”

“Considering you’ve had me murdered before, a little bit of back talk should be no issue,  _ mother _ .” He sets his spoon down. “And yes, he remembers.”

“That’s good.” From his expressions, something tells her it’s not. 

He shoves his chair back, making sure it makes as much noise as possible. “I’m going for a walk,” he declares and stomps away, ensuring to slam the front door as loud as he can. 

He doesn’t come home for a while. She rests in her bedroom, a blanket wrapped around her and the television on, solely for a sound to be present in the background. Deciding to rent an apartment in LA was the last decision she ever thought she’d take, but lo and behold here she is. A place that she was sure no one would find her in.

She doesn’t like to think that she regrets any of her actions. Regret leads to feeling incapable and feeling incapable is unfamiliar to her. She’s not sure why she’s here, in a shafty apartment in a disgusting city filled with self-centered, greedy people but she’s here. And as the door opens, and the knot in her throat loosens, she sits up. 

Her son walks in the room, eyes puffy, cheeks bright red, and the bandages around his hand now torn and red with fresh blood. They don’t greet each other. Just stare, waiting. Thinking maybe. She gestures to the closet. “There’s a blanket in there.” He nods, trudging towards it. She lights a candle by her bedside and turns off the television. He switches off the light after he grabs a blanket and huddles on the bed as far from her as he can possibly be. 

It doesn’t hurt, she tells herself, turning to her right side. She watches the tiny flame flicker, imagines him watching her back. Wonders if it reminds him of old days and if he misses it just as much as she does.

“Sleep well,” he mumbles and she closes her eyes tightly. She does not sleep well at all.


	2. Rest

His mother sleeps in the next day. She’s really grown pathetic, he thinks as he flips through his notes. Sure solving the last case didn’t get him back in the family but he’ll be sure the next one does. He won’t ever admit it aloud, but he misses knowing that he’ll sleep in his bed with his animals cocooning him and wake up to the silence of the manor. Sure before it was torture but it beats freezing to death or waking up to wild people fighting each other or fools onking their horns for more than a few seconds. 

When his mother walks in, she’s showered, wearing high waisted silver pants and a teal top that flows with each step she takes. Her hair is up in a high ponytail, golden hoops touching her shoulders. Her taste in fashion never fails to impress him. When he was younger, he would often be upset that he’d either have to wear a solid color whilst she fashioned patterns of all types and thick embroidery and shining mirrors stitched onto her sleeves. 

She observes him with those sharp eyes of hers, slithering towards him. He knows what she’s thinking, seeing him there on her sofa looking like a beggar with a stray cat he found this morning on his lap. “I thought you were off Robin duties?” she asks, and oh, she just had to say that.

“I quit being Robin,” he scowls, and aww, by the looks of it, she knew that already. Of course she did. “These are just notes about some cases.” 

“So you’re still solving cases for him?”

“No!” he snaps his journal shut. “It’s to keep me busy and entertained.” A lie. Pretty big one. He won’t ever admit to it.

“I can give you a few chores.”

“I’m not killing anyone.” Last time he tried doing that, life spiraled downwards even faster. It still going downhill, but at least he has secured a place to stay for a while. Mother seems to be in a good mood and he doubts she’ll kill him or expel him from this poor excuse of a house. He looks at her, all prim and proud, then looks back to the ragged cover of his journal.

“Never said you would,” she huffs, taking a seat by his side. If she was Richard, his hair would be ruffled by now. If she was Father, then she’d be gone by now. If she was Alfred, she’d probably say the right thing to comfort him. But she’s none of those. She’s his beloved mother. He suddenly feels nauseous and light headed. “Did you eat anything?” she asks, and no, it’s not ‘cause she cares. She’s scheming. He’s a piece to her game that she’d thought she’d lost, but no, lo and behold he’s crawled back. He nudges towards the empty cup on the table. She chuckles and crosses her legs, and shifts. He automatically looks at her. This is a power game, he repeats as she takes his hand. “That’s not food, Damian.”

He glares at her, but can’t manage to speak. Between them, the cat looks up drowsily, before putting his head back on his paws, tail and whiskers twitching slightly. She pats the top of his hand as if he were some dog, before standing up. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”

“It’s 12,” he replies, adamant to not leave the cat and his warmth. “Plus I’m not hungry.”

“You’re hungry,” and somewhere in his brain something tells him he’s hungry, but he just opens his journal and leans back. She shrugs. “Suit yourself, my son.” 

His brazen mother actually leaves, making sure the door shuts loudly behind her. He sits still for a while, staring at an empty page. The cat on his lap stretches his way off, leaving him alone. Like always. Damian has had plenty of time to wallow in self-pity. He’s not doing it again. He’s not. He’s not. 

Clearing his throat, he sits upright and starts reading through his notes again. This case seems to be just like any other typical, well-executed crime. No trace left behind. No possible motive. No suspect. He stares at the decapitated body, tracing the outline. Some of these cold cases just seem like cases his father assumed to be less important at the time. Having been robin for a few years, he knows how many cases can sprout out at the same time. Father is wise and efficient in solving, but he is a busy man. 

He would barely have time for anything other than overseeing the enterprise from times to time, Justice League work, and his own Batman work. When Kyle and him had first announced their engagement, apart from his initial fear of being replaced, he had been surprised that Father had decided to dedicate a portion of his life to someone. Quite unfortunate that it did not work out. Father would have been so happy. 

Damian remembers Mother telling about her own marriage life with him. A cheesy “everything I had hoped for and more type of moment.” She had told him how they had been eager to have him, but in fear of her Father she had decided to lie about him, claiming he had fallen out as a clumpy clot of blood. Apparently the somber impact the supposed miscarrage had on his father had caused the split. 

After meeting Father for the first time, he realized that while his parents were together at some point in their life, Father definitely had not expected him nor necessarily wanted another son before meeting him. He’s not sure if he’s a product of some fruitless love story or a symbol of violation sometimes, but he is sure that to a certain degree, both his parents love him. 

That much is apparent by his father not giving up on him when he died and ensuring him to believe that he is his son. His mother, with her tons of trust issues, just allowing him to stay in the same room as her serves as proof enough as well. 

Damian does not consider himself to be a manipulative freak. Contrary to popular belief, he does accept his faults and unfortunately, being unable to use others’ emotions for his own benefit is one of them. He couldn’t use his father’s love for him to allow himself back in the empty horrid manor. He couldn’t use Alfred’s love for him to somehow save him. He couldn’t use Richard’s love for him to help him remember. So he’s not honestly too sure that he can use whatever love Mother has for him to get things to work his way. 

Current plan, he thinks as he taps his pen against an empty sheet on his journal. Writes ‘plan’ in the middle of the page. Scribbles around it. Question marks everywhere. What’s the plan? The plan, the plan, the plan, the plan…..

And next thing he knows, he wakes up to his mother standing over him.His heart races but he steadies himself as he sits up. Talia does not seem to be in a good mood anymore. Her hair is down and lips drawn into a grim line. She wants to tell him something, but she can’t. It’s oddly frightening to see his mother hesitating. “Back so soon?” he croaks. He’s painfully aware that it’s dark outside, but the sun had been setting earlier than usual thanks to that blasted Daylight Savings system.

“Freshen up,” she demands, turning back towards her room. “You’re in dire need of clothes if you plan to continue to stay here.”

And huh, maybe he’s gotten worse at reading people. That wasn’t so scary at all. Rather, he feels quite eager standing up and stretching slightly. If she wants him to buy clothes, that must surely mean she expects him to stay with her… Right?


	3. Chapter 3

Talia doesn’t sleep well. She had thought that maybe with her son by her side, she’d finally have a restful night, but sleep does not come to her. She finds herself turning to see Damian, eyebrows furrowed and his body curled tightly. He looks nothing like the child that would be by her bedside a couple years before. Back then, he would lay stiffly on his back, hands folded on his stomach. Maybe he would be awake or aware of his surroundings, but he never seemed stressed or sad. The child before her eyes is drowning in sorrow. His cheeks are no longer round and chubby. The gash seems like it’ll scar quite terribly. It’s puffed up and she can tell he’s been scratching it.

She wants to hold him, but she’s sure if there’s any habit he would not grow out of, it would be his immediate response to sudden contact. She’s sure she’ll be able to deflect any attack he attempts but why interrupt his sleep? She might as well suffer through her insomnia alone- as per usual. She’s not sure for how long she stares at her son, taking in every detail before she falls to sleep. When she wakes up, it’s noon time. It’s the most she’s slept for in a while. She imagines Damian thinks her to be lazy now, but quite frankly, she doesn’t care. She takes her time showering, applies kajol and a layer of mascara. She chooses a nice outfit and walks out of her room, finding her son on her couch again. 

He’s wearing the same wretched garb he wore when he first came and has a hideous looking cat on his lap. He visibly swallows as she looks at him and slowly drags her gaze to what’s around him- a few notebooks to his side, a journal on his lap and a few photos on her table. There’s an empty cup and assuming from the smell currently polluting her living room, it must’ve been a cup of coffee. How disappointing. He used to love tea and would take a good cup of milk tea over any other drink. 

She decides to comment on what she hopes will give her the most information. “I thought you were off Robin duties?” 

“I quit being Robin,” he snarls, face twisting. Well she knew that. She gives him a pointed look and he flushes, quickly saying,“These are just notes about some cases.” 

“So you’re still solving cases for him?” and point two for her. Her question apparently hurts so bad, he snaps his journal shut, not bothering if anything crumples around. Once upon a time, Damian was very particular about keeping his pages neat and straight.

“No! It’s to keep me busy and entertained,” he insists, and wow, is he bad at lying now. They’ll need to work on that skill a bit.

“I can give you a few chores,” she smirks. He could definitely help her clean this poor excuse of a house. The bathroom is disgusting, the kitchen floor is greasy and the carpet looks like it has never been washed. Definitely not a condition that she or the spoiled prince currently glaring at her are used to. 

“I’m not killing anyone,” he says, but it sounds more like a question to her. How funny that the first chore he’d have in mind would be a mission. She must say, she has softened up far too much. Thankfully she didn’t specify what type of chore she had meant. 

“Never said you would,” she replies, taking a seat by his side. She stares at the leather journal in his hands. He’s holding it tightly- she wonders what else he’s got in there. He doesn’t seem like he’s been writing out his feelings. It could be case information but she doesn’t imagine he’d be looking at it like it's his lifeline if it was just another casefile. She could ask about it, but she wants him to relax a bit so instead she asks, “Did you eat anything?” He nudges towards the empty cup on the table, and ugh, coffee. “That’s not food, Damian.” He responds with a glare and alright, it was fun at first, but she’s never been a very patient woman. Instead she pats his head and tries to demand he join her for breakfast. He declines and now she’s upset. 

No use trying so much if he’s going to continue to behave this way. She finds a nice cafe to eat at in no time. It’s nice and tiny and the colors don’t hurt her eyes. The menu isn’t impressive at all. She goes through it for a while and sighs, deciding to just get an omelette and an apple scone. The waitress is surprised to hear that she doesn’t want a cup of coffee with it or anything to drink really. “Just some water,” she asks before turning her head away. The waitress mumbles something but leaves without pestering her further.

She opens up her laptop and leans back, staring at the screen as it turns on. Now to decide what to do. With Damian suddenly joining her, she doubts her little vacation will be much peaceful for long. There’s no way Bruce would let him stay with her for longer than a week or so. She’s also got business to return to within a month. Rejoining the League might be a bad decision, but then again when has it ever been a good move? She also needs to see her father’s current condition- an unsettling feeling pools in her stomach immediately.

Planning to take back Leviathan requires strong forces and she would have never imagined that Damian would return to her side. With him here now, the field has changed. The only question is will he be willing to help?

While they are getting along perfectly fine right now and she is satisfied to hear that he is rebelling against some of his father’s ideals, Damian doesn’t seem to want anything really. From the way he was staring at his own journal earlier, his heart is not in it. Her own previous experiences with her father tells her he’ll come along, but she still does not feel too confident that he’ll perform well. Last thing she needs is for him to die helping her. Then Bruce will play angel as usual and she’ll be the devil as usual. 

A couple hours after sending emails and researching, she comes back home to her son sleeping on the couch. It doesn’t seem like he’s moved since she left him, and that shirt of his annoys her. She doesn’t have to nudge him awake or even clear her throat. He sits up abruptly, eyes wild and she raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t even bother composing himself and she’s not sure what to tell him. “Back so soon?” he manages to say. 

“Freshen up,” she demands, turning back towards her room. “You’re in dire need of clothes if you plan to continue to stay here.”

She knows he plans to stay with her. She comforts herself knowing that in his most desperate moments, it is she who he has sought out- not Bruce Wayne or Richard Grayson or Superman’s son. She is his current light beacon and maybe it doesn’t mean she’s forgiven for indirectly killing him (a fact that haunts her to this day), but it’s a start.

They take a cab and get to a shopping center within twenty minutes or so. The car ride is silent- not much to speak about in front of the presence of others. He stares out the window the entire time and once more, she finds the voice that used to reason with her to marry Bruce asking her to approach her son with a normal conversation. What can she ask? How’s school? Definitely easy. She ensured his education would be top quality. Any new hobbies? She’s sure there are none. What type of normal conversation can they even have?

His taste in fashion is disappointing. Black, green and blue collared shirts. Two pairs of jeans. A pack of underwear which he tries to hide from her within a basic coat- as if ashamed of a basic article of clothing. 

“Getting anything?” he asks, as they approach the checkout and she just shakes her head. Nothing here appeals to her. Western fashion is distasteful. He takes out money to pay but she shoves his hand away at the cash register, the young man in front looking taken aback by her action. “I can pay.”

“Well and good for you,” she replies as she hands her own money. The cashier nods quickly, gives a receipt which she places back on the counter and hands them the bag. They return home and oh well, that was quite uneventful. “Food?” He shakes his head and she shrugs, heading towards the kitchen to make herself tea. She’s not begging him, she tells herself. If he’s hungry, he’ll eat. 

In her living room, he’s huddled in his favorite spot on the couch. The cat is back and he’s stroking it with an absent look. She sits directly by him, placing her cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on her table. If he is surprised by how close she is to him, he shows no sign. 

“Do you still drink it burning?” he asks, reaching out to grab her mug. He brings it up to his lips, the steam engulfing his face. 

“Drinking tea when it’s scalding hot is the only proper way.”

“Alfred would agree with you,” he says after a sip. Are his eyes watering or is that the steam playing tricks on her eyes? “He used to make amazing tea. Not as good as the one you’d drink but it was still so satisfying.” Silence. Should she ask him something? Wait for him to continue? This is all so confusing and she hates being confused. “He didn’t even care. Whatever time I wanted it, he’d make it.” He half-laughs, half-scoffs. “Especially after my 13th, I knew I could go to him whenever.”

“I’m pleased to hear he was there for you,” she says, but she’s not pleased at all. There is jealousy burning her insides. She should have been there. He should be talking about her like that. 

“I want him back,” he says, turning to look at her, and _oh no_ , wrong turn. He better not even suggest it. The determination in his eyes frightens her. It resembles someone she is sure both of them would not like to seem so similar to. “I’m going to bring Alfred back, Mother.”

Over. Her. _Dead_. Body. 


	4. Chapter 4

The shopping trip is uneventful. As he looks through the shirts, he wishes she’d say something. He wishes he could say something. If Alfred were to be here, they’d be discussing fabric and colors and maybe Alfred would persuade him to buy something he might not wear. After his father’s engagement with Kyle, Alfred and him had gone shopping for suits and he’d tried on a variety of outfits. The maroon velvet one had been his favorite, but he and Alfred had decided to get it the next time they’d go shopping together again. Unfortunately, it seemed he wouldn’t be getting that outfit. 

Damian buys the most basic clothing articles and his mother doesn’t bother to convince him to do otherwise. So boring. She herself buys nothing and although she might try to act all high and mighty, “Western fashion sucks” type of attitude, he’s sure he’s seen her in tank tops and pairs of pants much more hideous than anything in this store. Of course, he doesn’t bother pointing it out. 

She pays. They ride home in silence. She offers him food, and no, he’s not hungry. If she were Alfred, she’d know not to ask. Just give him something. Anything. 

He sits on his couch with the cat, whom Mother hadn’t even questioned where he got it from, cuddling on him. He finds himself thinking of Alfred more and he blames the shopping trip for this. If he closes his eyes right now, he’ll be back in the chair, immobile and helpless and screaming and Alfred will be there, fragile head in Bane’s large hands. He can hear it still. It’s loud and sickening and he’s sure he vomited after. He can almost taste it again. He’s going to be sick. Crack. Sick. Crack. Sick. Crack.

Mother.

He blinks. She’s directly by his side and there’s a cup of steaming something on the table. He reaches out to grab it without hesitating, enjoying the tingling that he feels as soon as his freezing hands make contact with the burning mug. It’s tea and it smells delicious.  “Do you still drink it burning?” he hears himself ask.

“Drinking tea when it’s scalding hot is the only proper way.”

“Alfred would agree with you,” he nods, remembering the after-patrol drinks they would share with each other from time to time. Or after-a-nightmare cup. Or a I-need-it cup. They would always be satisfying. He tells her that and ahh, there it is again. Alfred, tied in a chair. Bane and his humongous body. Him tied and his supposed grandfather tugging on his hair to make him see. “He used to make amazing tea. Not as good as the one you’d drink but it was still so satisfying,” he says, trying to distract himself. She doesn’t entertain him with a response- not that he wanted one. “He didn’t even care. Whatever time I wanted it, he’d make it,” he continues and agh, his throat is getting tight. “Especially after my 13th, I knew I could go to him whenever.”

“I’m pleased to hear he was there for you,” she says, but that doesn’t matter to him. Not right now. Right now all he wants is to go back to his 13th birthday and change everything. Life went downhill from there. What is he missing since then? Richard is back and he’s sure he can win his love back eventually- no, he knows Richard loves him. There can’t be any doubt in that. His father might not like him right now but if he molds himself back to the son that could possibly be acceptable, then Father will take him back. Who cares about the rest. Timothy, Todd, Brown, everyone else in the family haven’t cared much for him. Hell, Todd nearly killed him in the past year. 

All that’s missing in Alfred. And then it clicks. He can get him back. Just like he’s here after a sword pierced straight through his chest, Alfred can come back from having his neck twisted. It’s perfectly possible ‘cause now it seems like Mother is on his side. He turns to face her, declaring, 

“I want him back.” And just for a bit of a dramatic effect, he repeats himself. “I’m going to bring Alfred back, Mother.”

She narrows her eyes and any warmth he thought was there is gone. There is a familiar, odd feeling building up inside of him, but he’s not sure if he can pinpoint what it is. She crosses her legs, elbow on her knee and cheek resting on her palm, observing him. “How?” she asks. “I’m sure you don’t want to use a Pit.” She’s wrong- he’s more than willing to use the pit. “Your old man would come back terribly and it would take far too long for him to recover.” Liar. It wouldn’t take long and it wouldn’t matter. He’d stay by Alfred’s side and nourish him patiently just as he had done so for him. “Then there’s retrieving the body, fighting your father and the rest of his children-”

“Stop,” he shouts. Of course she’d try to crush his hopes quickly. 

“He did die in front of you,” she continues and he swallows hard, knowing where she wants to take this conversation immediately. The shame is back, his eyes watering again. It’s all his fault. He was weak and pathetic and didn’t listen- or did he listen and mess up the mission? Everything about that day and after are muddled. A tear sneaks its way out and his face burns in shame. She’s not going to hold back is she? Talia places a hand on his cheek and turns him to face her once more. She seems to want to pull him into an embrace and would he seem too desperate if he leaned forward? He blinks, trying to clear his vision so he can look at her properly. “You must stop this,” he hears her say. “There is no way this broken shell is my son. You have lost weight, muscle and everything that made you Damian.”

Huh. Now why does that anger him so much? Suddenly, all shame is gone. Something in him bursts- it’s the same emotion he felt when his Father opened his arms for him to embrace him and when he saw Father going through his notebook. “And how would you know that exactly?” he asks calmly at first. She blinks, taken aback. “You haven’t even been around!” All composure is lost and she recognizes it immediately, drawing her hand away. “Think coming to drop by a dead bird and seeing me a few times in a year just for a less than five minute conversation makes a difference? You didn’t even try! Where were you, hu? I’ve been out of the manor for a month or two or maybe even more and you didn’t even bother to check!” he shouts, childishly, before stomping away to her room and locking the door behind him. She can freeze out there for all he cares. Slumping down against the door, he presses his eyes to his palms. There’s a tear or two but thankfully she cut his sob session very short. Ugh. Leave it to her to ruin everything. Now he’s more irritated than sad. How dare she think that she even knows who he was. After disowning him, killing him, offering him nothing at all! The audacity is infuriating. 

The only good aspect about that conversation, he realizes after minutes of fuming and sniffling, is that it served as a wake up call. He isn’t Damian any more. Just like he abandoned Robin, he’s abandoned himself. He has grown weaker and weaker and the reason why Alfred died was because of his inability to save him. He looks up, glaring at nothing in particular. Too much time has passed. The year is drawing to a close and he has nothing- His reckless responses, rabid emotions and dependency on his family has caused this. Right now, he must focus on a plan. 

Thankfully, approaching his mother seems to have been a right move, he thinks as he stands up and opens the door. Finding her in the kitchen, he clears his throat. She gives him a glance and returns to mixing some concoction she has boiling over the stove top. “Done?” she asks, and he rolls his eyes. She probably thinks of his outburst as no more than a childish tantrum. 

“I want you to train me.” And he sees her repulsive smirk immediately. Undoubtedly she’s been waiting for him to ask. 

“I can train you, Damian, but,” he swallows. Here comes the moment of truth. She’ll finally tell him what she wants him for and chances are, he’ll disagree. Then he’ll have to leave and start again from square one. 

“I don’t care,” he interrupts. What he does not know won’t hurt him for now. “I want you to train me. Then we’re going to bring Alfred back.” 

She turns the stove off and turns to look at him, arms crossed and with an expression that makes him want to tear his hair out. “Guess no more sleeping in then?” He nods and she sighs. “Very well. Tomorrow before dawn then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week, DC has made me hopeful. Can't wait to see where they take Damian's character. Also his new outfit is the best!
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos. I hope you continue to be pleased with where this story goes.


	5. Chapter 5

Her son declares he wants to bring the butler back and she asks the most logical question: “How?” 

If he plans to use the pit, then she has bad news for him, but might as well not let him know about that yet. Instead, she chooses to reason why that’s a bad idea. She starts with the most obvious one. “I’m sure you don’t want to use a Pit.” He blinks, taken aback. “Your old man would come back terribly and it would take far too long for him to recover.” The butler would suffer a great amount and Damian would blame himself even more. “Then there’s retrieving the body,” she continues and oh will Bruce be upset by her son’s impulsive desires, “fighting your father and the rest of his children-”

“Stop,” he interrupts, clamping his hands over his ears. Her son is breathing harshly, eyes shut tightly. There’s a sudden urge to pull him into an embrace. The butler obviously meant quite an amount to him. Furthermore, while she’s not aware of the complete details of the unfortunate event, there is one thing that she knows.

“He did die in front of you,” she begins as he brings his hands down, eyes watering. She’s going to tell him- tell him that no matter what, you can’t change destiny. It is a lesson she’s learned again and again and again and one that he will have to learn. She brings her hand to his cheek-the one slowly healing- and turns his face. This is not the boy she carefully watched grow- hell, this is not the boy she saw a few months ago. “You must stop this,” she tells him. Stop blaming himself. Stop grieving. “There is no way this broken shell is my son. You have lost weight, muscle and everything that made you Damian.”

His expression changes immediately. She's either said the right thing or- “And how would you know _that_ exactly?” he hisses, and yeah, she said the wrong thing. “You haven’t even been around!” And now he’s incorrect- she’s always kept an eye on him. Even her father ensures that he is aware of Damian’s conditions whenever he has a chance. She draws her hands aware as his teary eyes clear and his voice begins to raise. “Think coming to drop by a dead bird and seeing me a few times in a year just for a less than five minute conversation makes a difference? You didn’t even try!” Uh, yes she did. Bruce would not have let her try any more. “Where were you, hu? I’ve been out of the manor for a month or two or maybe even more and you didn’t even bother to check!” he shouts, standing abruptly and stomping away. 

If he is sobbing behind the door, he makes sure not to make a sound. There is nothing she should really do till he chooses to approach her and she’s sure it’ll be soon. Twenty minutes late and she’s correct. She’s putting carrots, potatoes and other vegetables with a shank to boil overnight, hoping that tomorrow she can have breakfast with him when he clears his throat. She eyes him from the side, trying to determine his mood. Doesn’t seem as feisty, eyes puffy, scab on the cheek gone (that’s the fourth time he’s scratched it off since he got here) There’s so much left to be said, but she settles with a simple “Done?”

He scowls before demanding,“I want you to train me.” Adorable. Both of them seem to be approaching this conversation by ignoring the events that transpired no more than half an hour ago. Like mother, like son? 

Well, she’s more than willing to fulfill his kindly articulated request. He must increase his intake of food, she thinks immediately. When he was younger, they ensured he received a perfectly balanced meal and she’s sure he’s disregarded of that. “I can train you, Damian, but,” she begins and he interrupts her.

“I don’t care. I want you to train me. Then we’re going to bring Alfred back.” 

This again. She turns the stove off and turns to look at him, arms crossed. If she addresses the Pit issue right now, he could start planning ahead and any plan against her father is currently out of the picture. She wants truce with her family. “Guess no more sleeping in then?” she asks, choosing a safer route. He nods, eyes lighting up. “Very well. Tomorrow before dawn then.”

She turns the stove back on, keeping the heat low. She’ll be awake in a few hours so might as well let it cook, she explains to her son as he grabs the milk bottle from her fridge. 

“Slow cooked meals are superior,” he says, freely rummaging through her pantries. “Where are the biscuits?”

“Still on the table,” she replies. It seems as if she has no need to discuss his lack of eating. Hearing that he’ll be training again is enough. She’s tempted to ask when was the last time he did anything, but she fears she’ll trigger another pity party. 

With a glass of milk and packet of biscuits at hand, he follows her back into her room. She switches the television on and they watch and criticize the news for half an hour before deciding to sleep. In a few hours, he’s up before her, nudging her with his foot. If he were anyone else, he’d be dead. They get ready, eat up silently, and she takes him to her current training grounds. 

“Must I be blindfolded?” he asks as she wraps her scarf around his eyes. “Don’t trust me enough yet?”

“It’ll be this way for a few days,” she says. By next week, she’ll ask him to figure out where the training grounds are by himself. He seems to understand the purpose of the exercise for he lowers down the window as soon as they get in their cab. The driver keeps glancing at them and she finally sighs. “I did not kidnap him. He is my son.”

“Oh, don’t believe her,” Damian chimes in, placing a hand on his chest. “She’s abducting mee.” The driver is notably startled and she can’t help but chuckle. “Taking me to who knows where to do who knows what.”

“Dramatic kid you got there,” the driver plays it off and now Damian huffs out air, smiling slightly. 

“My Grandfather was a fan of theatrics,” he replies, and Talia is sure that while her father is quite flamboyant, Damian isn’t talking about him. 

It doesn’t take too long to get to their destination, nor does it take too long for Damian to start asking questions. After they exit the cab, she ensures that she guides him, hand on his nape. 

“So you’re setting up a League base here?” he asks, scratching the edge of the blindfold.

“Not a League base specifically,” she replies honestly. 

“Why here?”

“And where is here?” she teases.

“I’ll figure that out eventually,” he grumbles before continuing, “I meant California. I get blending into a place in which you wouldn’t be expected, but there’s plenty of other locations that would be much better.” 

“This is not an official base nor do I plan to stay here longer than necessary.” Definitely not. She’s got a few weeks left here at most. “Furthermore, I still don’t have a proper outline of what to do next.”

“Would you look at that? You're confused.”

“A perfectly normal state to be in considering how much has changed in the past year.”

“You’re telling me,” he huffs. Said ‘base’ isn’t even large. She plugs in the numbers to the lock and after a swoosh of a few doors, she lets him take off the blindfold. “How utterly disappointing. I thought it’d be larger.” Some things don’t change at least. “It’s a plain old base. The walls even look terrible. _How_ do you go wrong with walls?”

“I obviously did not design the base myself otherwise I guarantee you it’d meet your standards.”

“So you saw a randomly abandoned base and picked it? Have you even checked to see if it is bugged or worse-”

She can’t help but roll her eyes. Now he’s just insulting her. “I did, Damian. Now please, stop.” He mumbles a ‘fine,’ but doesn’t wipe off his judgmental look. “You’ve been training with your father for quite a while-”

“It might not be a surprise to you, but Father’s training style and League training style don’t have that big of a difference. Only few differences are we don’t fight to kill- but maiming and disabling someone for life or putting them in a vegetative state in an actual battle does not necessarily seem to be out of the picture. Also, I’ve mainly been training with dummies as the family has crumbled apart and there is not really anyone to train with lately. If it comforts you at all, my skills have not been lost.” Sounds about right. Bruce did love to believe he acts according to a morally higher ground but to her, and now her son, it’s all the same. “That doesn’t mean I’m killing anyone again.”

“Why? You’re hoping to crawl back into your Father’s arms after a few months?” His nose scrunches up. “I’m sure he’ll gladly take you back.”

“Oh, I  _ know _ that. And I’m not killing for a while ‘cause I don’t need more faces to plague my dreams. I have enough.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to kill anyone in the first place.” There’s a tiny silence before she decides to attack him. It doesn’t seem like she surprised him with that strike for he’s ready, blocking her. He seems to be sticking to a defensive stance, not striking her. She is sure he’s testing to see how serious she is. She lands a blow on his side, hard enough to make him stumble and his eyes light up. 

Overall, Damian’s style has not changed much. He is still fierce and straight to the point, not wasting much time in outlandish moves. He manages to strike her a few times, mainly because his lack of growth makes it easy for him to target areas that she doesn’t necessarily think about as most of her opponents are not as tiny. She points it out to him after a few hours of training, both of them sweaty and visibly irritated. 

He replies, almost threateningly, “Maybe growing would come more naturally to me if you hadn’t replaced my entire bloody spinal cord.”

“What was I supposed to do then?” He is obviously upset, eyebrows pulled down together, glaring at nothing in particular, but not bothering with a reply. She herself finds discomfort in the topic, stomach churning as she remembers receiving her son with bullets lodged in him and unable to move at all. Her response to the situation at the time had been rash and the decision she took at the time with Slade was one that she regretted not too long after. “I meant that it is good that you take advantage of your current height,” she says, trying to clarify her original comment. 

“I suppose,” he mummbles. She reaches out to grab his hand and he lets her. He says, a bit louder, “It doesn’t matter anyways.” She’s not sure if they are still talking about his height but she’ll let him be. For now, as they gaze at the tiled floor pointlessly, all she hopes for is their ideals to conform more and more as time goes by.    


**Author's Note:**

> “Fear is the cheapest room in the house.  
> I would like to see you living  
> In better conditions.”  
> -Hafiz


End file.
